


Farewell, Master Burglar

by strideroh



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Feels, Fluff, M/M, Mix Between Book and Movie, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-11-19 06:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11307213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strideroh/pseuds/strideroh
Summary: Forbidden love, a forbidden quest, and a forbidden ending. Thorin knows what he's getting into by falling for the burglar. For Bilbo, it's different. A soft flame, ignited when he first saw the dwarf. And nothing would ever be the same.(A predominantely Bagginshield fanfiction with Kili/Tauriel shipping and slight Fili/Sigrid implications. Hope you enjoy!)





	1. An Unexpected Thori--JOURNEY

"He's here." one of them said.

Three isolated knocks came at the circular green door, knuckles rasping against the formerly perfect and smooth wood of Bilbo's door. Heads whipped around, all was silent.  
It was the wizard who moved first. Grabbing his great, long staff and ducking underneath the chandeliers and formations around Bag End, he hustled to answer the call. The door groaned; a protest against all of the sudden company in the hobbit's lonely life.

It was asking him how...so suddenly. It was asking him why. 

Why had all of these dwarves come to call on the home of Bilbo Baggins, on just another lonely night under the hill? Bilbo also may have wondered why Gandalf, a wizard he had not even seen since before his tweens, was suddenly interested in wishing him good morning.

Another dwarf stood in the doorway, and Bilbo's groan was so audible and suppressed that it ended up sounding like the sizzling fish he had been about to eat for dinner. A sound that was, almost like a gurgle? Yet the sound and overall desire to make it (no matter how unconscious) was almost instantly quelled. The hobbit fell into silence. It was apparent that this dwarf was not like the others.

And he was not all he seemed. 

He strode carefully into the hall, filthy boots on Bilbo's fine furnishings and weapons dangling from...

"Gandalf. I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way. Twice. If it hadn't been for the mark on the door I never would've found it." the newcomer's voice was pleasant and velvety, caressing the halfling's senses. He closed his eyes momentarily. 

"Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said after a stifled chuckle, "allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield." Bilbo peeled his eyes open from where they had been pressed tightly shut in frustration, and allowed himself to look at the leader freely, assessing his dark eyes and darker beard, hair so long and luscious that Bilbo wanted to stand on his tiptoes and--

"Wait a mark on the door?!" Bilbo exclaimed. "There's no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!"

The final intruder ignored his qualms. "So, this is the hobbit." Again, Bilbo was tantalized by the soft and deep voice. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever heard, similar to his mother's old music box. Where was that? Broken, no doubt, along with the dirt on his glory box and the pillaged pantry. Bilbo didn't know what he would be able to salvage after this strange (and not the pleasant strange of a gift given with good intentions, but an uncomfortably strange) visit. He sighed. 

"Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?" said the newcomer.

"Pardon me?"

"Axe or sword, what's your weapon of choice?" Thorin Oakenshield's eyes narrowed.

Bilbo was at a loss for words. "Well, I-I-I have some skill with conkers, i-if you must know, but I f-fail to see how that's relevant." The halfling stood up as straight as he could muster.

"Thought as much. He looks more like a grocer then a burglar."

Bilbo's stomach twisted uncomfortably. His small hobbit hands burled themselves into fists. This newcomer; this Thorin, within the first five minutes he was even meeting him, was having an effect on him that not many people could incur, even the Sackville-Bagginses. He hadn't an idea why.

The rest of the dwarvish company had crowded around this hurried conversation in the hall, but as Thorin strutted down the hall towards the pantry and the dining room (as it could only be supposed he was as hungry as the rest, Bilbo thought) the congregation followed, drawn naturally by the aura that seemed to surround Thorin. Some strange energy. 

¨What,¨ barked Thorin Oakenshield, ¨is there no more food in this dreaded hole?¨ 

Bilbo scoffed, offended beyond belief. He had barely opened his mouth to utter a dissonant 'excuse me!' before he realized they were all looking at him, rather expectantly to say the truth. Not for the first time that night, he stood open mouthed, a stubby finger pointing at its owner in unspoken question.

¨Why don't you get him something to eat, my friend?¨ said Gandalf, voicing the expectations of the group. They had all sat down at the table once more, making no move to assist Bilbo or the leader of the company in his search for food.

Bilbo stood rooted to the spot, bitter beyond belief, before sighing and completing the order, though not without a great deal of bustling around (and not to mention huffing.)

But he was paid no attention after that. They were all of the sudden busy, busy discussing far off places...Ered Luin, the Iron Hills...and Bilbo knew nothing nor appreciated the discussion that was going on in his kitchen, by the dwarves that had invaded his house! They were going on a quest... a quest? Bilbo had been sneaking glances at Thorin, hoping for explanation, not being surprised at being paid no heed. Not even a thank you for the meal that Bilbo had served him! But then they mentioned the dragon. A dragon that they wanted to kill. Bilbo felt faint. 

"And boys you forget, we have a wizard in our company! Gandalf will have killed hundreds of dragons in his time!" said Kili. All eyes turned to Gandalf, who appeared to be choking to death on quite a small amount of pipe smoke. 

The arguing begun.  
The arguing was silenced. 

"Do we sit back and let others claim what is rightfully ours?!" a figurative blanket of velvet encased Bilbo's small frame. "Or do we seize this chance to take back what is rightfully ours?! Du Bekâr." 

"To arms!" yelled the company.

"But," this was Gandalf. "We will need a burglar." 

Silence followed; a different kind of blanket. 

Bilbo snickered. "A good one too. An expert, I'd imagine." 

"And are you?"

Bilbo was taken aback. He looked around. "Am I what?"

"He said he's an expert! Hey, hey!" screamed Oin.

A second passed, before realization hit. The steel fist of anxiety punched Bilbo in the stomach, causing him to double over, and causing his heart to ache. "M-m-m-me? No, no, no, no. No, no, no, no, no, no. I'm not a burglar. I haven't stolen a thing in my life!" to this he stood up proudly. 

They were fools if they thought a small, reclusive hobbit would go on a quest with their party. They were crazy for thinking that he would steal! He had everything he could ever need right there in Bag End, and he had no desire for a change or, or, an adventure. Thorin's dark eyes caught his. He had no desire to go on an adventure--did he? 

The doubtful mutterings that sprung up comforted Bilbo. If there was one thing these dwarves could do for him tonight, it was take his side. Keep him armed with numbers. 

But the quiet debates didn't last for long in wake of the wizard. "Enough! If I say Bilbo Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is! The room seemed to darken. 

"Hobbits are remarkably light on their feet. In fact, they can pass unseen by most if they wish. And while the dragon," Bilbo flinched. "Is accustomed to the smell of dwarf, the scent of hobbit is all but unknown to him, giving us a distinct advantage. You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mr. Baggins. There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest, and he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including himself. You must trust me on this."

"Very well. We will do it your way." Bilbo's heart leapt. Not for the first time tonight, he hadn't an idea why. "Give him the contract."

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. He looked around at the disgruntled state of his cozy hole and burned with annoyance at these, these--dwarves that had ruined his night. (And his furniture.)

Gandalf seemed to have read his mind. "Tell me; when did doilies and your mother's dishes become so important to you?¨ His brow furrowed, highlighting (as though with brown chalk) the deep wrinkles that were carved into the face of Mithrandir. Gandalf the Grey. ¨I remember a young Hobbit who would have liked nothing better than to find out what was beyond the borders of the Shire. And you can tell a tale or two when you come home." 

Bilbo thought about this for a second. It was true; he could remember a time in which his heart longed for adventure outside of the four farthings. He remembered running in the fields and taking in the sun and times when he didn't care about the Sackville-Bagginses making off with his spoons. He glanced at Gandalf; a look full of meaning.

"Can you promise that I will come back?"

Besides the now fading embers of the fire, Gandalf's pipe was the only thing that illuminated the wise features of his face. "No. And if you do, you will not be the same..."

Bilbo Baggins hadn't a clue what to do. He looked around aimlessly at the company, his mouth bending open and a helpless expression faintly sketched on his face. He was compromised for the first time. And he was ashamed to be seen this way.

They took his silence for rejection. "It appears we have lost our burglar. Probably for the best. The odds were always against us. After all, what are we? Merchants, miners, tinkers, toy-makers; hardly the stuff of legend." 

Bilbo didn't find himself correcting them...

"There are few a warriors amoungst us."

"Old warriors."

"I will take each and every one of these dwarves over an army from the Iron Hills. For when I called upon them, they came. Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that. From my grandfather to my father, it has come to me. They dreamt of the day when the dwarves of Erebor would reclaim their homeland. There is no choice, Balin. Not for me." 

Suddenly, it was all Bilbo could do not to refuse this dwarf that seemed so bent on his task; a dwarf who had spent a lifetime helping others. A dwarf who needed redemption.

"Then I will see it done." said the hobbit. He lowered his pen to the contract.

I'm going on an adventure, he thought, and in that moment he wasn't sure if he meant the rescue of Erebor and the slaying of Smaug the Terrible. Thorin's dark eyes watched him keenly as he set down the pen and handed over the contract.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading the first installment installment of FMB. If you liked it, please leave a kudos and feel free to shoot me a message on Tumblr; @strideroh, or tell me what you think in the comments below! Hope you'll stick with me, and thanks again!


	2. Wagers

"Come on Nori, pay up. Go on."

Bilbo watched as a small bag of gold was tossed between two dwarves. "What's this about?"  
His eyebrows furrowed.

It was Gandalf who responded. "They all took wagers on whether or not you'd agree. Most of them bet you wouldn't."

Bilbo watched, the icy fingers of sadness and guilt licking at his heart as small tweed bags were thrown all around the room, clinking as they went. 

"A-a-a-and w-what did y-you think?"

Gandalf caught a rather plump pouch of gold in his outstretched hand. "Oh, my dear hobbit, I never doubted you for a second." his eyes twinkled mysteriously. Or maybe that was just the flickering fire reflecting in those age old orbs.

* * *

This was it. The end. He couldn't go on he couldn't go on he had to go back!

"Wait! Wait! We have to go back we have to go back!"

"What," said Gandalf calmly, "on earth is the matter?"

Bilbo took a deep breath. "I forgot my handkerchief."

The company was silent. 

"Here. Use this." It was Thorin. He tore off the sleeve of his shirt and threw it to Bilbo, whom was too stunned to complain as the company moved on. The sleeve was dirty, soiled.

He was simply; beyond words. None of the dwarves would comply with any of his requests, Bilbo felt. The fourteenth member was less than nothing.

Soon, they all simultaneously began to slow down, and finally a small camp was erected at the edge of a cliff somewhere way beyond anywhere Bilbo had ever been (or wanted to go). 

He sat down next to the flickering fire as soup was being doled out by a content Bombur, but the hobbit found he had quite lost his appetite. 

Bilbo stared into the flames and heard the merry crackling of the fire. That was all there was. And then.

He heard a screech.

"What was that?" Bilbo gasped. 

"Orcs.¨ Came a croak from the dark; a few meters to his left. 

"Throat cutters. There'll be dozens of them out there. The lowlands are crawling with them."

"They strike in the wee small hours, when everyone's asleep. Quick and quiet, no screams...just lots of blood." That was the first voice again. 

Bilbo was all of the sudden shaking furiously. He had thought the cliff safe, he had thought himself safe, but in reality who would live through the night and who would die first when nobody had even the slightest inkling to protect the hobbit? He felt tears creep up into his eyes, threatening to spill onto his cheeks.

And then both voices started wheezing in laughter. Bilbo wondered if they could see his mad blush through the lambent blaze.

He certainly hoped not. 

"You think that's funny? That night raids by Orcs are a joke? You know nothing of the world." Thorin spat to his nephews. The air turned instantly stale.

All was quiet as the company stared in surprise and fear at their leader. 

"It's-it's okay. Thorin has more cause then most to hate orcs." And Balin went on recounting Thorin's tragic tale, and the Oaken Shield that had saved them all. 

¨Moria had been taken by legions of Orcs lead by the most vile of all their race: Azog the Defiler.¨ The air had turned stiff. ¨The giant Gundabad orc had sworn to wipe out the line of Durin. He began,¨ it seemed to take Balin great pains to say what happened next. He shut his eyes tight, squeezing them to the breaking point. He lowered his head. But nothing he could've done, no movement he could have made, would have prepared the hobbit for the grief in Balin's voice as he said, ¨by beheading the king.¨ 

Chills ran through Bilbo's body, (though not the pleasant kind of that sort) and he listened, part fear of hearing more, part fear of not hearing it all, as the wisened old dwarf spoke on.

¨We were leaderless. Defeat and death were upon us. And that is when I saw him: a young dwarf prince facing down the Pale Orc.¨ Bilbo snuck a glance at Thorin. His dark eyes were lost in the firelight and his long hair fell into his face. Bilbo wanted to tuck it behind his ear. 

¨Azog the Defiler learned that day that the line of Durin would not be so easily broken.¨

Hearing the things that he had gone through; all the obstacles he had faced and the hardships he had endured while the hafling sat alone in Bag End, smoking a pipe or roasting some fish over the fire. Bilbo thought he might be sick.

Why had Gandalf chosen him, as burglar? He, Bilbo Baggins, was useless, hadn't he proven that? And yet the dwarves of Erebor and the Blue Mountains had all been through so much. The hafling had nothing; nothing to contribute and nothing to make his company proud. Bilbo looked over at Thorin again. Dark, elegant hair adorned with silver rings and artfully knotted braids. Bilbo could feel his breath dripping out of him like water and for a second he was convinced he had forgotten how to breathe.

¨We should all get to bed,¨ said Balin. Bilbo couldn't tear his eyes away from Thorin; and instead they raked over, as if with a mind of their own, that hooked nose, those dark eyes, the strong hands that had once held the wooden shield. The halfling forced himself to turn away, laying down on the log near the fire. He didn't quite know how to process the tale that had been told by firelight on this night, but no matter how confused he was about everything else, the hobbit couldn't deny that one emotion stood abundantly crystalline clear: he felt safe, so unbearably safe around Thorin.   
And I thought to myself then, there is one who I could follow. There is one I could call King, Balin had said.

Somewhere in between Bilbo's muddled thoughts, his conflicted feelings and the large root that was sticking painfully into his side, he dosed off. 

Morning came. 

More adventure would come. 

His legs were burning and cracking like a campfire. They had been riding for hours upon hours, time stacking like hay bales in the empty field across the road from Bag End. The sound that escaped him when Thorin told them to stop for the night was inhumane. 

Unsticking his legs from the saddle of his pony and collapsing in a relieved heap on the soft dirt of the forest, he felt safe for maybe the first time since he had left the Shire. Even though he was probably the farthest from safe he could possibly be. 

 

So Gandalf had been right. They should have moved on to the Hidden Valley. Trolls. They had wandered into a troll camp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading this installment of FMB. If you liked it, please leave a kudos and feel free to shoot me a message on Tumblr; @strideroh, or tell me what you think in the comments below! Hope you'll stick with me, and thanks again!


	3. Dark and Glimmering

Bilbo had heard a hurried conversation as he unpeeled his legs from the saddle of his pony:

¨We have a map we cannot read, Thorin,¨ Gandalf had said. ¨Lord Elrond may be able to help us. I say we make for the valley of Imladris.¨

The dwarf cackled in indignation. ¨Help?! A dragon attacks Erebor, what help came from the elves? Elves look on and do nothing, my wise friend. You would ask me to seek out the very people who not only betrayed my father, but my grandfather as well!¨

¨You,¨ Gandalf said in mock of Thorin, ¨are neither of them. The heir of Durin does not bear that map and key, the very relics of your future, to hold on to the past!¨

¨No, I am given the responsibility to protect my people--¨

Before he could finish, the wizard stalked off. At this point, Bilbo, eyes wider than saucers, had chased (or rather wobbled horribly) after Gandalf, calling out, ¨Gandalf, where ever are you going?!¨

¨To seek the company of the only one around here who's got any sense!¨

¨And who's that, then?¨

¨Myself, Mr. Baggins!¨ Bilbo, panting beyond belief, doubled over and ceased his chase. (He also speculated that he had ceased to breathe, as air did not seem to be entering his lungs fast enough, or at all, for that matter.) ¨I've had enough of dwarves,¨ Gandalf threw a sharp look at the leader of the company, ¨for one day.¨ 

And with that, they became one wizard short.

The company had been commanded to make up the camp, make a fire, settle down for the night, and were all currently slacking (except for Bombur, who was cooking with furious intent) on the jobs they were supposed to be doing. Bilbo sat by the fire, taking in his surroundings while fiddling with the brass buttons on his vest absentmindedly. But he soon became very distracted.

Thorin was singing that song again. 

His eyes looked haunted, as they often did Bilbo noticed, when he was staring into the fire and thought no one was watching him. But Bilbo wasn't watching. He was scrutinizing. He found himself unable to look away from the man in shadow, the man who was oozing sadness and grief. 

Far over,

The Misty Mountains Cold,

It was getting dark. Balin had left the fireside and Fili and Kili were nowhere to be found. Neither were any of the other dwarves, for that matter, even Bombur, who had been there just a second before, before bouncing off to deliver bowls of soup to the other dwarves. Bilbo slowly inched closer to the enigmatic dwarf; scooting casually around the ring of driftwood. Small breaths were exiting full, pink lips, but Bilbo thought that maybe those lips were sucking the breath out of the air. Because, suddenly, the hobbit couldn't breathe. 

To dungeons deep,

and caverns old. 

We must away...

Bilbo smelled pine cones and something sweet; though he still wasn't sure he could breathe. Suddenly, startlingly, he was inches from the broad shoulders of Thorin Oakenshield. For a second, Bilbo thought he could hear the cogs and wheels of Thorin's head turning.

"What do you wish of me, burglar?"

He froze, already missing the absence of the velvet song that had filled the air like fireflies seconds before. 

We must away,

Ere break of day,

To seek the pale, enchanted gold.

The dwarves of yore made mighty spells,

While hammers fell,

like ringing bells. 

Like ringing bells.  
They fell like ringing bells in places deep. Deep. The hammers clinked and clanked and treasures were made, springing into existence like flowers in spring. 

In places deep, 

where dark things sleep--

"Burglar," Thorin snarled. 

Bilbo started, bolting upright. 

"Is there any news you wish to report to the leader of your company?" Bilbo couldn't deny it, the 'leader of the company' was cold, and the hobbit felt the sting of cold air on his rosy cheeks. 

"No, no, no no. No." Bilbo sputtered

"Then what on Earth are you doing here?"

Bilbo felt a stone fall to the bottom of his stomach, and doubled over, clutching his round abdomen. Funny, he couldn't feel any rocks in there. He had a sinking feeling that the dwarf wasn't just pondering why he, Bilbo, was sitting so close to Thorin where he sat by the fireside. 

Thorin turned his head, giving the Burglar a sidelong glance. "Shouldn't you be burglaring something?"

"Thorin," all the gathering frost was suddenly melted away by a burst of inferno. "What is your problem with me? I was chosen as the fourteenth member of this company, and I am here to stay." His voice broke. 

All was silent for a long time. 

"Leave me, halfling."

"Thorin--"

"Leave,"

Bilbo released an inaudible gasp. He had never heard such venom in words before. He stumbled backwards, thinking of the same voice. Same but softer. And the voice was singing Bilbo a song. 

In places deep,

Where dark things sleep.

In hollow halls beneath the fells.

A tear slipped down his dirty cheek. Where was Gandalf? Why had he come? Bilbo imagined, in a different world, he would be sitting down by the fire, on his mother's old silk cushions, reading a book. 'You'll have a tale or two to tell when you come back.' But if Bilbo came back, he would not be the same. 

For ancient king,

And elvish lord,

There many a gleaming golden hoard. 

They shaped and rought,

And light they caught. 

Thorin's eyes caught on fire, gleaming, when he looked at his company, but not when he looked at Bilbo. 

He finally looked up from where he had been watching his leathery, hairy feet (unbrushed) scuffle along and found twelve dwarves bound on a stick, rotating around a fire circled by three enormous trolls. 

This time, Bilbo's gasp was audible. He again staggered back, and his foot caught on something sharp. He bit back a cry of pain, his head whipping around to identify his assailant. It was a sword, but not one like Bilbo had seen before. It was short, hobbit sized, with an elegant swirl engraved in its blade. Its hilt was laced with silver leaves. And when he wrapped his hands around it, slowly, tentatively, the grip and weight felt perfect. He stared up at the scene before him again, slowly lifting the weapon that was now clutched between both hands like a lifeline. As he raised it, the hobbit's courage seemed to build, to grow.

"STOP!" Bilbo screamed. He thought his voice might have leaped in the air and escaped because he was pretty sure he'd just lost it. Bilbo held the sword up high as the three trolls spun around in their seats on huge, dead tree stumps to find the source of the voice. It was immediately apparent, however, that in that moment he was too small for them to see. Gandalf was right. I really can do this. I can be a burglar. Bilbo ran up to the first troll, seized the pouch that hung off of its belt, jumped up and stabbed it in the middle of its back, sliding down with his blade until a straight cut on the giant's back was oozing blood. The hobbit was surprised that they too bled red. 

He grabbed money bags from the other two, and what looked like a small key that hung from one of their cloth belts. The blade of his sword glinted off of the rising sun and as the trolls whipped around, enraged, their eyes now seeking him with more need than ever, Bilbo knew that they could finally see him. As the normal feeling of anxiety and hopelessness whooshed back around him, he had to think fast. Bilbo knew he couldn't take these beasts in open combat. He had never even held a sword before. He had never done anything even remotely like this! He was just a hobbit that belonged in his cozy little hole in the Shire, not here, not here, not here! Not here where he would probably be killed and eaten and he couldn't do anything to defend himself! The dwarves of his company were looking to him to save them! They were slowly cooking in their own skins and clothing; tied over the gargantuan bonfire that the trolls had constructed. Bilbo could only imagine the skill and time that would have to go into keeping and maintaining a fire like that. All he could create were miniature tendrils of flame that stayed calm within the fireplace his father had built in Bag End. 

But, after all, fire was their only source of light. If they stepped outside in the sunlight they would turn to stone. It must be such a dreary life, thought Bilbo quickly, having to retreat to darkness every morning, fearing the dawn, in which they faced an imminent chance of death. He couldn't imagin--

"Dawn!" he screamed in revelation (still caught in a staring match with the creatures), his relief soaking through his being like a tidal wave. The trolls looked at him, bemused. "Dawn take you all!!" 

There was a flash of light, and the three trolls turned to stone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Thanks for reading the first installment installment of FMB. If you liked it, please leave a kudos and feel free to shoot me a message on Tumblr; @strideroh, or tell me what you think in the comments below! Hope you'll stick with me, and thanks again! See you tomorrow with a brand new chapter :)


	4. Silver Leaves

Thorin would not be impressed. Bilbo gritted his teeth as he untied the members of his company, scraping away the areas of the rope that were charred beyond use. He was careful not to cut any rope that could be used later. One by one, the dwarves rolled onto the ground, free. 

"Where's Thorin?" they asked. Bilbo's mouth opened and closed.

"Ah...er...he's, h-h-he's by the fireside."

"And why wasn't he savin' us?" asked Fili.

"Eh...w-we--h-e..."

"Just spit it out!"

Bilbo felt a firm hand slap his back and coughed, and finally spat, "At the fireside! He's at the fireside."

The dwarves looked around at each other. "He left us to be saved by our burglar of all things!" The hobbit felt his cheeks turn pink. The dwarves began to draw near, confusion and anger playing on their faces. 

"Hey look over here!" Screamed Oin. He was trying; with little success, to move a boulder. As the dwarves moved over to assist him, Bilbo exhaled a sigh of relief as they abandoned their anger (if even temporarily.)

Bilbo wandered, not caring in the slightest about what may be behind that rock they were still trying to move. He could hear moans and shrieks of frustration blowing away from his company. The rock didn't budge. Bilbo didn't care that here he might find treasures untold; maybe his fourteenth of the earnings, and then he would be able to go home. It was a troll cave, after all. Who knew what untold glory lay within? (Even if it were stolen.) Home. Bilbo missed Bag End; he missed his mother's doilies and he missed his garden, and even that young Gaffer who he had spotted admiring it only a few days before his unexpected departure. The burglar had seen that glint in his eyes.

But Bilbo wasn't sure he wanted to go home. A pair of dark eyes danced behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and though he probably wouldn't admit it to anyone; he wasn't sure he'd enjoy his previous life having seen and known the King Under the Mountain.

But Thorin hated him. He never spoke to Bilbo with respect, never looked in Bilbo's direction if he could help it, didn't treat Bilbo like he was much more than an unfortunately annoying mutt. Bilbo almost entertained the thought that Thorin might treat a dog of that sort with more sympathy and kindness. So why was he thinking about Thorin? Why was he sparing the dwarf any thought whatsoever? It was arguable that the leader of the company was making Bilbo's life hell. What was wrong with Bilbo? Was he some sick, frightening little monster? Is that why he got stared down by Thorin? Bilbo repressed tears and his blood started to boil, because he didn't even know why he cared. His vision turned red, and he immediately tripped on a forest snag. And, suddenly, he felt an unendurable pain tear down his face. Everything...well everything didn't go black, but maybe it turned the flesh color you see when you close your eyes in wake of the sun. 

***

"Why isn't he waking up?"

"We should move on. We should not be delayed by the burglar."

"Thorin we can't just leave 'em."

"He won't wake up. His face was cleaved in half. No way a hobbit could survive that."

"What do we do with 'em then?" Bilbo could imagine Kili's face contorted, his hands on his hips. Bilbo Baggins's lips twitched upward. 

"Look; he moved! Bilbo! You're awake."

Bilbo said nothing, for when he had smiled, an excruciating pain had carved along the side of his face. One of his eyes was swollen shut. He opened the other, inadvertantly winking at his company as he tried to assess his surroundings. 

They were still in the troll camp. Why were they here? It seemed they had set up camp a few days ago; as the camp already messy and the dwarves restless. He saw Thorin holding a bloody sword--was that his blood? It looked a lot like his blood. He could feel his face crusted with something; and as he looked around again, he felt his stomach rise into his throat. Lurching up, the burglar vomited all over himself. He felt horrible.

"You see? He'll never make it. We should mov--"

"T-t-treat me." Bilbo croaked. 

"What did you say lad?" asked Balin. 

"Treat my wound again. Dress it. I can make it." If Thorin had said that he wouldn't make it; something bad had definitely happened. He didn't let himself think that maybe Thorin was looking for any excuse to drop the fourteenth member of the company. What Bilbo wanted most was to prove him wrong, to show Thorin that he could be stronger than anyone but Gandalf had bargained for! This wasn't about getting back to his comfy home in the Shire, not now. Bilbo hated being treated like he was incapable. He wouldn't let them be right. "Treat. Me. Or does this company not honor their contracts?" 

He heard rather than saw hasty and sudden movements, a clink of a glass, a muffled protest, and then he was soaking wet. Blood and vomit were being washed off of his face, shirt, hands. He knew what came next. First his eye was dabbed with spirits, producing a sting as it sprung open. He saw Thorin standing above, his face impassive; a slab of artfully carved stone. Bilbo looked him in the eye as the fabric moved down onto what felt to be--well, the problem. 

I will not scream. I won't. I won't show anything. Nothing. No emotion. If Gandalf says I'm a burglar, then a burglar I am. Burglars do not make noise. Quiet, sly, quick, snakelike. He stared at Thorin, who stared back, and maybe Bilbo had been going crazy; but he thought he saw a hint of smugness in the dwarf's features. 

It was like his face had been dunked into a burning flame. The left side of his face ignited with pain, lighting him ablaze and everywhere there was discord and discomfort and pain. He promised himself, he had promised himself that he wouldn't scream, but it hurt so badly. He wanted to die, he actually wanted to die; he wanted this throb to be put to rest. It hurt so bad. It wouldn't stop it wouldn't stop it wouldn't stopitwouldn'tstopitwouldn'tstop. He was certain the stabbing sensation would never cease. It was so tempting, so tempting it was almost natural to open his mouth and shriek. 

He was fortunate, then, because as the hobbit remarked upon the memory on a later date, he wasn't sure that he could've contorted his face even if he wanted to. Maybe then he too was stone. His face may have been a carved piece of abstract beauty. Maybe the sculptor's knife had slipped. 

A needle slid through his skin softly, stitching up the gash. It was nearly painless. Bilbo stopped, imploring his senses. He felt the cut start on the left side of his forehead, stretching down and barely missing his eye (which was still swollen) and ending in the middle of his neck. It was immediately apparent that he was lucky to be alive. Hobbits are made of stronger stuff then you may think, Thorin Oakenshield. 

Bilbo glanced again at the leader of the company. Thorin sheathed the sword that had caused his wound, beautifully crafted, and looked the hobbit up and down. "What's that you have, burglar." The way he said it was strangely flat. It didn't sound like a question. 

Bilbo stared, puzzled, and then followed Thorin's eyes down to his waist. There he saw his new sword, glowing slightly blue inside its scabbard. Bilbo had an inkling that even though it was near a troll camp; with trolls being ravenlike as they are, that this blade was not made by trolls, or even goblins. The leaves stood out against the oak-like brown of the handle; glimmering. He traced them with his fingers, admiring the arresting beauty.

"These," he said, "are my precious silver leaves."

"That dagger looks more like a letter opener to me," said Dwalin, and the company chuckled. Thorin joined in.

Bilbo felt his blood begin to boil again. This time, he would stand up for himself. "Do elves need blades to open letters?" The dwarves fell silent. Bilbo sighed in relief, knowing that not one of these dwarves knew anything about the ways elves acted and the ways that they got things done. Whether or not they actually used letter openers he never found out.

"Silver leaves? All Right then, Baggins." Thorin's eyes were fixated on the top of the blade, glowing in the light that leaked from the sheath. Bilbo could suddenly see nothing else but Thorin, and he was strangely calm, for he was sure that it wasn't his fault everything else was suddenly absent. But maybe it was. It was all in his head. Because Thorin was all he wanted to see at that moment; his beautiful--no, beautiful wasn't the right word. Thorin's arresting eyes showed all of the leaves. Bilbo could see flecks of silver and blue in brown eyes that he hadn't seen before. He wasn't even sure that that combination could exist. 

And for some strange reason, Bilbo wished that he could call Thorin his silver leaves instead of the stolen sword. 

Silver leaves suited the King. One day, Bilbo would make him a crown of silver and gold. And Thorin would be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! Thanks for reading this installment of FMB. If you liked it, please leave a kudos and feel free to shoot me a message on Tumblr; @strideroh, or tell me what you think in the comments below!  
> (and if you want to just moan about the Hobbit with me, or just want to talk, my message box is open too owo) 
> 
> Thanks again for sticking through my fluffy, RedBull induced fantasy. I'll see you tomorrow with a brand new chapter :)


	5. The Hidden Valley

The Hobbit was stronger than he had initially thought, Thorin Oakenshield would give him that, if nothing else. Yet the one thing, the one thing that the dwarf could not get out of his head was the ever-lingering question: why had Gandalf chosen him? Why him, why a hobbit who had no experience, no sense of adventure, no proper priorities besides being home for dinner? Thorin still had no idea what to expect from the hobbit, and that not only made him uneasy; it terrified him. The way the Halfling had asked to be treated after he was wounded, stared Thorin down as spirits were poured over his face, as he was being stitched up by Bofur. It had to have been excruciatingly painful, yet the hobbit didn't so much as flinch. 

Thorin chose to believe that it must be different for hobbits, that pain must affect them differently. He refused to accept the fact that this, this Bilbo Baggins character had been there to save the skins of his company while he, Thorin, was smoking a pipe by the fireside, not a care in the world. Yet, there was no doubt in the dwarf's mind that the Halfling was probably the one who had led his company into that mess. He, Thorin, would never lead his companions into trouble. He, Thorin, would never betray his friends. The hobbit was causing more harm than good, of course. Going off and getting himself nearly split open. Not even to mention that the hobbit had possessed a key to the troll cave that Thorin himself had to rip off of the unconscious burglar's belt, after what seemed like hours of struggle that he and his congregation had gone through trying to get the cave open, in order to reveal the treasures within. Struggle that could've been avoided had the hobbit only stopped thinking about himself for one second and actually thought about the company instead, from the very beginning.

Needless to say, the dwarf was not a fan. No, what Gandalf had seen in that small, hairy footed creature was well beyond Thorin. What had he said to the wizard? 'I cannot guarantee his safety, nor will I be responsible for his fate.' A small smile painted Thorin's lips. He could not have meant the words more than he did when he first uttered them, nor now, as he thought them, staring at the back of his pony's head as they trot, trot, trotted along the path down towards Imladris. The horse's head went up and down, up and down, up and down in time with the rocking of Thorin's body, where he sat astride.

The patterns were familiar, comforting to the dwarf, especially as they rode closer and closer to to domain of the elves, unfamiliar, an area that Thorin dreaded almost above all else. He had no great love for them, had even fought the journey there until his last stand. But he knew that Gandalf, the old fool, was waiting for him in the valley. He knew Gandalf, the stubborn old wizard, would not leave to find them. It was a sacrifice he made for his companions, because no matter how, how bothersome the old man could be, the company needed him, and their leader knew it. 

The path had grown steep, and as it curved around, hugging the mountainside, Thorin pulled on the reins as hard as he could, trying avoid falling into the abyss that was far, far below. He shouldn't have considered it surprising that the elven path would prove to be a death trap. He, of course, already knew that they shared no regard for any creature other than their own kin. 

¨Carefully, carefully,¨ was all he said, words echoing around the canyon in his deep, velveteen timber. 

Slowly, but surely, the company made progress along the steep mountain pass, stopping, and going, and stopping again. Yet it seemed like no time before they heard a faint: 

O! What are you doing,

And where are you going?

Your ponies need shoeing! 

At this, Thorin craned his neck over to look at his pony's hooves. He hadn't considered that they--

The river is flowing!

O! Tra-la-la-lally 

here down in the valley! 

The company came to a halt behind Thorin, listening intently as they were frozen by the sight of the valley, finally come into view. 

O! What are you seeking,

And where are you making?

The woodsmoke is reeking, 

The bannocks are baking!

O! Tril-lil-lil-lolly

the valley is jolly,

ha ha!

Thorin could see two figures in the distance, walking up the path, stepping in time with the music that had no visible source. They seemed content, and as they drew closer, Thorin was able to identify one of the dancing figures as Gandalf. So, he had been right. 

The other figure, though stepping merrily alongside the wizard, did so with an effortless grace; like a willow swaying in the soft breeze of summer. He wore a headdress made of intertwined pieces of metal, forged together so handsomely, Thorin had to take a moment to admire the handicraft from afar. Before he remembered, of course, that it had been forged by an elf. Keeping the elven forged sword he had found by the troll cave was one thing; a thing of convenience, as it would have been foolish to dispose of it. But going out of his way to admire the craftsmanship of an elf, that was an even more imprudent thing. 

The elvish song, no longer a distant humm, erupted into the final verse, voices bellowing out all around them:

O! Will you be staying,

Or will you be flying?

Your ponies are straying!

The daylight is daying!

To fly would be folly,

To stay would be jolly, 

And listen and hark

Till the end of the dark

to our tune

ha ha!

Pretty fair nonsense, Thorin thought of it. Gandalf and his elven friend had finally made it up to where the company stood sentinel on the mountain path, standing single file like a long, dwarven snake. With one hobbit. A hobbit who was not welcome. 

¨Thorin Oakenshield!¨laughed Gandalf, outstretching his arms. ¨So glad you could make it, my friend!¨

Thorin did not smile. 

¨Welcome to the valley of Imladris.¨ said the Elf who stood beside him. ¨We have been expecting your arrival, Thorin, son of Thrain.¨ 

¨I do not believe we have met.¨

¨You have your grandfather's bearing.¨ continued the Elf, his eyes holding Thorin in a vice-like grip, though they made no physical contact of any sort. ¨I knew Thror when he ruled under the mountain.¨

¨Indeed,¨ snarled the dwarf. ¨He made no mention of you.¨

The insult was ignored.¨And, in fact, I suspect we are not the only ones who were awaiting the arrival of your company.¨ a small, satisfied smirk colored his thin, elven lips. Thorin held back a snarl. ¨Strange for orcs to come so close to our borders. Something, or someone has drawn them near. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?¨ 

The dwarf almost laughed, almost cried out hysterically, for surely this was a joke; some elven mischief. There had been no trouble on the road where orcs were concerned. Gandalf met Thorin's eye, and Thorin found there was no trace of humor in his wizened, lined face. An uncomfortable silence followed, holding until the wizard's face changed completely, and he looked away towards the Elf.

¨Aha! My lord Elrond, I believe these matters are far better discussed over dinner!¨

¨No.¨ Thorin interjected. ¨We have had no trouble with orcs on our journey, and yet he blames us for an incursion on his borders? Come along, Gandalf, let's go. We do not need to be told we are no--¨

¨Yes! We quite agree, Gandalf. In fact, I believe all of us are rather famished, if you would be so kind as to lead us into the valley? Given that it's not too much trouble, of course.¨ Thorin recognized the voice. Burglar.

¨Of course, my dear hobbit. Right this way.¨ 

And this was how Thorin found himself being ignored by the wizard, led into the valley of the elves rather against his will, straight towards the last homely house east of the sea.

***

The sword the halfling had cut himself with was elegant. The grip was made out of soft yet durable wood, the hilt curving elegantly, one side of the blade straight as the horizon and the other curved outward like the branch of a tree that had been standing for a thousand years. Now, Thorin reluctantly handed the sword over to Elrond, balancing it with miraculous care between his two hands and only letting go when he knew it was securely in the arms of the Elf. 

He would have liked to believe that, under normal circumstances, he would not have handed over the blade so easily. Yet food and elven wine seemed to have clouded his judgement, leaving him so satisfied that it was all the dwarf could do not to sit back and fall into a stupor. He sat at a long, ovular oak table along with the rest of his company and Gandalf (whom the elves called, Mithrandir, a Gondorian remark), and made sure as the grave to ignore the hobbit completely. What he had been thinking, to disobey orders and lead them into the Valley of the Elves, was beyond Thorin, though his stomach rather disagreed with the notion that Bilbo had been misguided or crazy in any sort of way. It growled enthusiastically, though rather against the dwarf's will.

¨This is Orcrist, the Goblin Cleaver. A famous blade, forged by the High Elves of the West, my kin.¨ Elrond seemed to leer at Thorin as he said it. ¨May it serve you well.¨ 

He handed it back carelessly, attention already focused on Gandalf's brother sabre. His was different, displaying a royal blue hilt and a long, ornate blade. The hilt was wide, detailed and genteel. Thorin conceded that it was a sword worthy of his wizard friend; which, truly, was no small feat. 

¨And this is Glamdring, the Foe Hammer, sword of the King of Gondolin.¨ there was an intake of breath at his words. ¨These swords,¨ Elrond looked around at the company, ¨were made for the Goblin wars of the First Age. They must have come from a dragon's hoard or goblin plunder, for dragons and goblins destroyed that city many ages ago. Keep them well!¨

Thorin felt a surge of pride at these words. He looked up at the elven lord, who was eyeing him keenly. There was a pause, and then:

¨Show me the map you carry.¨ Thorin was silent.

How had the elf known? Surely Gandalf would not have told him without permission from Thorin, whose quest it pertained to. He did not think that it would have even crossed the Hobbit's mind, nor did he believe that any dwarf in the company would have conceded information to an Elf. That only left...

Thorin stared up at Elrond in slight disbelief. 

¨For goodness sakes, Thorin, show him the map,¨ said Gandalf. 

Thorin was silent. Did the Elf perhaps already know the content of the map? Was this all for pleasantries?

¨Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves. Your pride will be your downfall. You stand here in the presence of one of the few in Middle Earth who can read that map. Show it to lord Elrond, before I sock you and show it to him myself.¨ 

Thorin (silently), quelling all of the thoughts that raged around in his head like a monsoon, reached into his pocket and handed over the map, even despite a sharp exclamation of ¨Thorin, no!¨ from Balin, his most trusted advisor. There was no turning back now. 

¨Erebor. What is your interest in this map?¨Elrond stared up at the company's leader, seeming to piece bit by bit together, each discovery suggested in those age old eyes. He had not known.¨You found your swords on Great East Road, didn't you?¨

Thorin ignored the question, instead parrying it with his own. ¨You read ancient dwarvish, do you not?¨

Lord Elrond didn't push it. He stared back down at the map, where it crinkled softly under pressure from his slender elven fingers. He started suddenly. ¨Cirith Ithil.¨

¨Moon runes.¨ Gandalf gasped, eyes darting to Thorin. But the latter's eyes weren't fixed on Gandalf in turn, but rather on the Half-elven lord who now held the future of his people between his hands. 

¨An easy thing to miss. Moon runes can only be read by the light of a moon the same shape and season on the day of which they were written.¨

And this time, Thorin didn't hesitate. ¨Can you read them?¨

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long!! I was at an arts camp, & learned lots. You'll definitely be seeing more soon, now that I'm back, so stay tuned :)  
> See you soon!


	6. Moon Runes

They stood at the edge of a cliff overlooking thick shrubbery. The whooshing of an overhead waterfall deafened the company as they stood behind their leader, Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin, of course, stood beside Elrond Half-elven and Gandalf the Grey, situated subsequent to a great clear pedestal. The ornate slab of stone reflected the moonlight it was positioned perfectly to mirror, resting at the very edge of the congregation's line of sight, like a divine looking glass. 

Elrond, not bothering to turn around speak directly to the company, hunched over and facing the moon, was the first to break the stone cold silence. He got straight to the point.¨These runes must have been written on a midsummer's eve, in a crescent moon, a long while ago. Fate is with Thorin Oakenshield's company. It seems to me that the same moon shines on this night.¨

Ever so softly, Elrond stepped up to the pillar and lay the map down. Thorin eyed it with care, the moonlight making it easy to see any movements, or any patterns that would appear on the thin, antiquated paper. He watched carefully, stared intently at the way the elf's slender fingers slid out from underneath the aged paper and then smoothed it flat. Fate was not only with them this night, Thorin knew. Tonight, fate would be determined, and it would be irreversible, as if written in stone. They all waited, not knowing what to expect, simply that it would come. The elf had said it would, after all.

A minute passed.

And then two.

And three. 

Thorin began to grow restless, the ever familiar tingle of anger that lay in his gut at all times began to rise. Was this some kind of a sick joke? Had the elves lured them into the valley under false pretenses, hoping to waste their time, perhaps weedle any information they could out of the company and go after the treasure themselves? Was he, Thorin, right to trust these notorious creatures? Had he, Thorin, fallen into their trap? Had he led his company somewhere that was not in their best interests to be? He had almost given up hope completely when he saw it.

The dwarf watched in awe as silver blue letters, as if written from moonlight itself, appeared on his map. He could barely suppress the gasp that threatened to escape his lips, involuntary as anything could be. Unconsciously, he had stepped forward a few pases and rested his hand on the ethereal stone where the map lay, bending down to admire the detail of the thin, spindling words that weren't there a second ago, words that could barely be seen, even in on this blinding, moonlight night.

The skill, the beauty of his peoples' creation never ceased to surprise him; astonish him. He knew now, more than ever, that he must reclaim the mountain of his forebears, save the history imprinted in those walls. He must preserve the beauty in gold and gems contained within, contrived with delicate and sure hands, certain skill. There was no choice, no turning back, if there ever had been before. As he had thought it, (though maybe not quite knowing what it would mean) his fate had been sealed tonight.

¨Stand by the grey stone,¨ read Lord Elrond, who stood opposite to the King Under the Mountain, ¨when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.¨

Thorin met Gandalf's eye. They had both known previously that there was a secret door hidden somewhere on the mountainside (Thorin having suspected from the moment his father and his grandfather had mysteriously slipped out of the mountain, undetected, on the day of the Dragon.) 

¨Durin's day?¨ Bilbo asked, and Thorin turned around to stare at his company. He didn't snort, which he might have done otherwise, at those words of ignorance. He was too much otherwise occupied. Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks...

No other dwarves made any sound of that regard, of malice, waiting patiently for Gandalf to explain: ¨It is the start of the Dwarven New Year, my dear hobbit.¨ And at the Hobbit's confused look continued on: ¨It does not coincide with the one you and I both know, Master Baggins, for the Dwarven calendar is charted by the moon, rather than the sun.¨

¨It comes when the last moon of Autumn and the first sun of winter appear in the sky together,¨ offered Elrond, looking up from the map he had picked up from the soft, clear stone. Thorin's head whipped around to look at the speaker, and then back around to peer at the company again. 

¨We still have time!¨ he heard Balin whisper excitedly.

¨Time for what?¨ responded Bilbo.

Balin took no time to think, his speech quickening as his excitement grew, up, up, up, like a great oak tree.

¨Time to find this, secret entrance! He have to be standing at exactly the right spot,¨ Balin looked down at his feet, ¨at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened. Right, Thorin?¨ he glanced over at Thorin, looking for assurance. That flash of anger suddenly rose within Thorin, like vomit he couldn't keep contained within the recesses of his stomach.

¨What time do you think we have? This is ill news. Summer is passing, Durin's day will soon be upon us!¨

It was the Lord Elrond who spoke. ¨So this is your purpose. To enter the mountain.¨

Thorin twisted around to look at the Elf once more. He was really being most unhelpful, standing behind him still, unmoving.¨What of it?¨ said Thorin blankly, not wanting to give anything of their quest away. 

¨There are some who would not deem it wise.¨

The nerve of this elf. Thorin stepped forward without hesitation, reaching out and snatching the map back gruffly. He looked down, folding the aged paper carefully before sticking it back into his coat pocket. 

¨Who do you mean?¨concieved Gandalf, concernedly stepping forward until he reached Thorin and Elrond. He reached out towards the latter, hand falling out of his cloak and thick wizard's robes in a kinder mirrored gesture of what Thorin had done when taking the map back. 

There was a slight pause. 

¨Suffice it to say, my old friend, that you are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle Earth.¨ finished Elrond, and said nothing else.

***

The path from Rivendell was no less frightening on the way back up. Yet it did pay to have a wizard on the return journey. Gandalf led the company slowly, surely back up the mountain pass, walking only slightly ahead of a saddled Thorin, who would periodically bark out orders or advice such as, ¨Be on your guard.¨ or, ¨We're about to step in to the edge of the wild (and to feel like he was in control, also order Gandalf to) lead on.¨ But, what he said most often was, ¨Master Baggins, I suggest you keep up.¨ 

The last remark was usually followed by huffs and puffs of indignation from the Hobbit. Thorin even thought he heard a snarl once. 

But, for the most part, the travel was silent and uneventful. Once or twice, the wizard would break into a tune, describing how the road goes ever on and on, or that Gil-Galad was an elven king, or that blunting the knives and bending the forks was what Bilbo Baggins hates (as well as many more that none should trouble themselves with knowing.) But all this leg of the journey serves to say is that it left Thorin Oakenshield lots of time to think.

Not that he wasn't used to this, all this...thinking. Pondering. Contemplating or deliberating. There were a few things that seemed to role around over and over within his brain. For one, he couldn't seem to get Elrond's voice out of his conscious thoughts. It seemed to repeat itself over and over again, begging to be heard, like a dove outside a window as daylight arrives.

Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.

Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.

Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.

'I get it,' Thorin tried to explain to himself. 'I understand what it means. You don't have to repeat it again.' But when he accidentally let his mind wander again, there it was, clear as day, begging to be heard.

Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's day will shine upon the keyhole.

Another thing that Thorin couldn't seem to unthink, and was forced to acknowledge, was that if it hadn't been for the burglar, he would never have allowed his company to enter the valley of Imladris, and if it hadn't been for that, they would not have been privy to the information they so direly needed to complete the quest. Yes, as much as the leader of the company shuddered to admit it, he had the hobbit (though somewhat stubborn and annoying) to thank for doing what he was too prideful to do. Accept the help of an adversary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey :) thanks so much for reading! If you enjoyed (and even if you didn't) please be sure to leave a comment telling me what you think, or a kudos! Find me on tumblr @strideroh and feel free to leave me a message.   
> See you soon with more FMB!
> 
> -strideroh


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